


one hand on the devil, baby

by voidwaren



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Cora Hale/Lydia Martin, Minor Danny Mahealani/Jackson Whittemore, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidwaren/pseuds/voidwaren
Summary: “Take him away,” she said quickly, her voice hushed and her words almost too fast to decipher. A guard eyed them as they passed, but she gave him a dazzling smile, and instantly the conversation between her and Stiles seemed like nothing more than a quiet, naughty exchange between two young and stifled royals.“What?” Stiles hissed back once they were out of range. “What are you talking about? Take who away?”“Derek,” Cora replied, and if one could bark a whisper, she certainly had figured out how to do so. “He needs to let go. Just for one night.”-What did you get when you mix a gaggle of visiting royals, a prince with a history of mischief and mayhem, and a single night for them to do whatever they pleased? Stiles was about to find out.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Everyone
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	one hand on the devil, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I know I already have a million WIPs, one of which is also a TW/Sterek story. But, like. Y'know. Here's another.
> 
> (AKA this was originally a profic story but I turned it into fic for the fun of it and it kind of grew legs and ran away from me. It's mostly finished, there are only a few middle scenes I need to work on, so I'm tossing it up now. I'll do anything to keep myself writing during this hell of a year.)
> 
> Should be MUCH shorter than Oak and Mistletoe, and therefore be finished much faster. Hopefully. I'm known for eating my words, though, so. No high expectations in these parts, y'hear?
> 
> (Also, just ignore the fact that this basically starts in the same formula as Oak and Mistletoe. Thank you.)

Stiles met him on a balcony bathed in moonlight, shedding glitter and confetti and the half-melted snowflakes that made their slow descent from the sky above, and he realized—before he’d even opened his mouth, before the man had even noticed Stiles was there—that he’d do anything to meet this man again.

* * *

The night was alive with the sounds of a party. Lights of every color, food from every land spilling from the kitchens on glittering trays, people laughing and dancing and forgetting their own names beneath the pull of one too many glasses of pearlescent sparkling wine. It was a night of excitement, of merriment and of occasional debauchery. And it was a night Stiles wished he could skip.

Crown Prince Stiles hated parties.

It wasn’t the people he hated. Not the music or the merriment or even the dances he spent months learning properly before each event to make sure he knew all the steps and didn’t trip over himself in front of a hundred or more people. It certainly wasn't the lavish spreads of food that Stiles had made himself sick over many a party before, because that was the _best_ part.

No, the thing Stiles hated about parties was the fact he always had to act like someone he wasn’t. It was the fact he had to dress up in clothes that restricted his movements, the fact he had to waltz around a room with a woman or man whose title he couldn’t care less about and try his best to keep them entertained, the fact he had to act like the proper son of the ruling monarch of the kingdom trussed up like the very same kind of people he used to swear he’d never become, powdered nose and everything. All because of a position he was born into and a title he had no choice but to inherit when the time came. It made him feel like a liar. It made him feel like a fraud, even as he walked around as the person people expected him to be.

Stiles hated everything about it.

It wasn’t like this a few years ago. Hell, a few years ago Stiles had been the picture of mischief among the court, causing all sorts of trouble during the balls and the weddings and the town celebrations, to the point where people came looking for him in the thick of it all asking for him to take them away before they drowned under the pressure of the titles they never asked to bear. And Stiles would do so willingly, easily, taking their hand and leading them on great moonlit adventures through the castle and along the streets of the city in the dead of the night, with nothing but the stars and the creatures of the night to guide them back home at the end of it all.

A few years ago, Stiles had been exactly what he wanted to be—untethered, wild, and uncaring of who would see. He’d been happy, carefree, and so very much _alive_.

Then his mother had died of an illness that ravaged the city, and reality had come crashing down around his ears. He was the only child of an aging king who refused to separate himself from his people even for the good of his health, and he had to start acting like it.

And, so, he did. The Stiles he had been died with his mother, and there had never been a reason to bring him back to life again.

He was miserable because of it, even as he nipped a chocolate-covered strawberry off a passing tray on its way into the ballroom and stuffed it into his mouth, shedding chocolate all over the carpet below.

“If you get that on your suit, we’ll have a murder on our hands come morning,” a grave voice said from Stiles’ left, and Stiles startled hard enough to nearly rip the curtain he was hiding behind from where it hung.

“ _Lydia_ ,” he said around the half-chewed strawberry still in his mouth. The woman in question glared at him, then reached out and dusted the shoulder of his red and black party coat. Stiles quickly swallowed. “You’re supposed to be in the ballroom already.”

“I was on my way there when I found your mask” —she paused only long enough to hold the mask in question up in the same hand she already held hers in— “sitting outside your quarters, still in the wrapping paper, and realized I was going to have to find you first.” She narrowed her eyes, and her gold-dusted eyelids sparkled with the movement. “You weren’t planning on hiding all night, were you?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles said immediately, sounding about as unconvincing as one possibly could. He winced.

“It’s Scott’s birthday, Stiles. You can’t be a no-show at your best friend’s twentieth birthday party!”

“Sure I can,” Stiles grumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Lydia actually cringed, then whipped a handkerchief from her décolletage with her free hand and started scrubbing his skin of potential chocolate remnants. Stiles allowed her, if only because he knew fighting it would be futile. “It’s his birthday, no one will notice if I happen to not show up.”

Lydia didn’t deign that with an answer. A smart decision on her part, because even Stiles was fully aware he couldn’t not show up to a party being held in his own castle, regardless of who the party was for. It was just plain rude. Someone would definitely notice, and then his name would be in the papers for weeks afterwards, and not for any reason the king could be proud of. Not to mention Scott himself would probably be put out.

“Two hours,” she said instead. “Just two hours. That should be more than enough for everyone to see you and try to worm a dance out of you. Then you can go back to lurking behind the drapery and stealing food. I won’t even make you sign any dance cards.”

“One hour,” Stiles tried to bargain, but that was quickly shut down with nothing more than a raised eyebrow on Lydia’s part. Honestly, who here was the prince and who was the duchess? Because, somehow, Lydia always seemed to outrank him despite reality being otherwise.

“Enjoy yourself,” Lydia said firmly, handing over his mask, and then she vanished in a swirl of shimmering pink skirts and golden lace. Stiles looked down at the mask and had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn’t surprised—what else would he have been? —but predictable was never a good look on Lydia.

Tonight, Stiles wore the face of a fox.

Not a traditional fox, mind you. That was for the lower ranking individuals currently fawning around in their heavily-decorated clothes and overly-perfumed hair. No, Stiles wore the face of a black fox marked with streaks of red around the ears and muzzle. A unique design, with his sigil hidden in the swirls of fur at the forehead, of a creature people still associated the prince with even years after he stopped acting like one.

Stiles kind of hated how much he liked the damn thing.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself as he disentangled his limbs from the drapery and emerged into the hallway that led into the ballroom. The guards standing on either side of the entrance watched him, one with an apologetic look on her face. He’d asked them not to say anything with a finger to his lips when he’d first dove behind the heavy fabrics, but Lydia had found him anyway. Using a quick hand gesture, he told them he knew it wasn’t their fault, and the apologetic guard relaxed. The other simply continued watching him.

And with a great sigh, Stiles slipped the mask on and tied the red ribbons tight, then walked through the doors into the throngs of people hidden behind the face of every animal imaginable.

The center of the room was a swirling mass of innumerable colors, all twinkling under the glow of the countless lights with both the glitter most chose to wear to costume parties such as this and the sparkling confetti that floated down from the rafters, spreading itself to every corner of the room and deep into the clothing folds of every patron beneath it. Fast-paced music threaded through the air, mixed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional singing voice as Stiles passed through the layers of people and tried to find the man of the hour. He hadn’t seen Scott since that morning at breakfast before they’d both been whisked away to get ready for the party, and, as a long-standing tradition from when they were young, Stiles owed the birthday boy the worst dance he could possibly have of the night. Stiles was ready to scuff some brand new leather shoes, pop a few buttons straight from their silk-lined waistcoats, and then hide from Lydia’s wrath for the rest of the night.

But Scott was nowhere to be found.

Not willing to drop the hunt so readily, Stiles nestled himself into a corner between two of the food tables—one filled with a rainbow of pastries that Stiles made a mental note to ravish later, the other a sea’s worth of crustaceans and fish and other unnamable things, some of which still gurgled in their shells—and tried to remember what it was Scott was wearing that night. Stiles hadn’t been present for the arrival announcement of the visiting crown prince, too busy sneaking around the curtains just outside the room, but he’d heard it happen, so he knew Scott was already there. He also knew Scott’s preferences when it came to his clothing, so a wolf mask was the key point in Stiles’ search. The only problem was: a wolf was a very common mask choice, and Stiles didn’t know what about Scott’s would be the aspect to set him apart.

A crown, possibly? Scott typically hated wearing his crown to parties, claiming it was difficult to dance when he spent a large amount of time worrying it would slip from his head and embarrass him, so that was probably out of the ruling, unless it was etched directly into the mask itself.

His sigil? Would it be that easy to see a double circle, likely hidden somewhere within the design of the mask itself, without staring the mask-wearer directly in the face? Would Stiles have to _dance_ with every wolf-faced masculine figure just to find the person he was looking for?

His eyes scanned the crowds again, and he felt his gall slowly seep down to his toes. There were dozens of masks even vaguely resembling what could be a wolf—Stiles would be there all night.

He suddenly wished he had thought to ask Lydia before she’d left, assuming she’d even tell him in the first place. She probably thought keeping him on the blind hunt would make him stay at the party longer.

God, he really didn’t want to be there. It might have been a birthday party for his oldest and greatest friend, but it was never fun for him unless he could cause a little trouble.

Nabbing a flute or something pink and bubbly from a tray to his right, Stiles downed the thing in one gulp, stifled the consequential belch that tried to force its way back up his throat, and meandered his way to the other side of the room. Still, there was not a Scott to be seen. There was a Jackson, though, loitering by the unmistakable figures of Stiles’ father and Queen Melissa of their sisterlands, Scott’s mother, dancing together in place on the direct outskirts of the fanfare. Setting his empty glass aside, Stiles locked in on his sights and crept his way over.

Years of sneaking around the castle and poking his nose exactly where it didn’t belong meant Stiles had a relatively good track record of getting to the place he wanted to be without being seen, even in plain sight, and not even Jackson, who had technically been trained specifically with Stiles in mind after growing up as a page under King John’s reign, noticed Stiles sneaking up on him until Stiles was pulling the ribbons of Jackson’s dragon mask free.

Jackson started with a hissed curse, his hand flying up to keep the mask on his face, and in the same motion reached behind him and grabbed Stiles by the upper arm with his free hand.

“ _Your Highness_ ,” he growled in his Jackson way, loud enough to be heard by Stiles’ dad and his not-a-date-just-a-frequent-guest. Luckily for Stiles, they seemed distracted enough in each other not to notice just yet.

“I’ll put it back on properly if you come with me.” Using the grip Jackson had on him, Stiles quickly maneuvered the both of them back into the shadows of the ballroom before Jackson could give much of an answer. Once safely out of view of the parents, Stiles smacked Jackson’s hand off and motioned for him to turn around.

“What was that all about?” Jackson asked as he complied. There was a note of bitterness to his tone, but that was Jackson for you. Growing up, he’d never been Stiles’ biggest fan, especially not when Stiles’ crush on Lydia had become painfully obvious to everyone who so much as looked his way, but he’d softened to Stiles as a whole after the loss of Queen Claudia when they both were sixteen. Having been the one with Stiles when the news broke, first with the onset of the illness and then her eventual death, he’d been one of the few people to see firsthand just how much a person like Stiles could break, and Stiles was pretty sure Jackson never recovered his full dislike of the crown prince in question after it all had been said and done.

Plus, Jackson had been the one to win Lydia over when they were eighteen, and, while the relationship hadn’t lasted, it had also helped to lessen some of the sour feelings on his end.

Stiles didn’t answer immediately as he tied the ribbons tight, then patted Jackson on the shoulder to signal he was done. “I can’t find Scott,” Stiles explained. “I also don’t really want to be here.”

Jackson scoffed. “Yeah, and what else is new? How long did Lydia tell you to stay this time?”

“Two hours,” Stiles admitted sourly. Jackson laughed. “I was hoping you could cover for me if I happened to suddenly vanish from the party?” he tried hopefully, doing his best to make his eyes look puppy-dog-like behind the confines of his mask.

“Hell no,” Jackson said without missing a beat, then quickly tacked on, “Your Royal Highness.”

“Come on, Jackson! Please? I’ll come back, I just want to go somewhere else for a little while.”

“And have Lydia breathing down my back for allowing it? I don’t think so.”

“I could order you to, you _are_ my personal guard,” Stiles pointed out, but Jackson just looked at him in that way that told Stiles he was raising a single eyebrow behind his mask. Stiles sighed dramatically. “What’s the point of the title if no one listens to me anyway?”

“Plenty of people listen to you,” Jackson corrected, smacking a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Just not me, and especially not tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a fine looking set of specimens waiting for a man such as me to show them how a real dance is done. Have fun finding Scott.”

Stiles made sure his responding scoff was accurately disgusted as Jackson turned and walked off to meet a pair of identical figures in the crowd, one of which Stiles distinctly recalled writing his name on Lydia’s dance card a few parties ago, leaving Stiles glowering to himself alone. Stiles debated marching up and inserting himself into the situation just to be an ass, but quickly rethought the action before he could execute it and get himself stuck in a conversation he didn’t _actually_ want to have.

“May I have this dance?” a voice asked before Stiles could find his way back to the dead fringes of the party instead, and Stiles turned to find Allison smirking at him from behind an owl mask. A quick glance around told him Scott was not with her, and if Scott wasn’t glued to her side like he normally was, that meant he was being forced to dance with some of the other partygoers who had shown up specifically with Scott in mind. Which meant Stiles was certainly not going to see him anytime soon, unless he wanted whoever Scott was dancing with being passed off to him the second Scott spotted him without a partner.

“Absolutely,” Stiles agreed, holding his hand out for Allison to take. She smiled brilliantly as she took his hand in her white-gloved one, and off to the dance floor they went.

Allison was, by far, a much better dancer than Stiles was. Only surpassed by Lydia (and only in some dances, at that), she was swift in every movement and seemed to almost float around the dance floor, even in a dress that looked heavier than she was, made of layers upon layers of feathers and fabric with names Stiles couldn’t guess if he tried. She looked like she belonged in her creature of choice, elegant and deadly if she chose, if the legend of her familial background was to be believed. Beast hunters up until a settlement dozens and dozens of generations back, Stiles typically chose to not believe, but he _had_ seen Allison shoot an arrow straight through an apple exactly as Jackson was taking a bite out of it without doing much more than scaring the shit out of him, so maybe it wasn’t all a myth.

Allison’s bright brown eyes met his as the song changed pace suddenly, picking up to an even faster rhythm, and he only just caught the twinkle in her eye before her hand tightened in his and she took him over completely.

She was so much a better dancer than Stiles (and Scott, though Scott rarely surpassed anyone’s dance skill, so he often wasn’t counted in the first place), that every time Stiles did dance with her, she always somehow managed to lead him without ever taking the position to do so. And she did so by using a pressure method via her fingertips against his shoulder and hand, where her hands were positioned. It had taken Stiles a number of dances to catch onto her antics when she started coming to other courts and stayed for parties, and then a few years on top of that to perfect his understanding of her puppeteering, but he was to the point now where he unconsciously moved in time with her ministrations and didn’t even have to pay them any attention. It made her the easiest person for him to dance with, and he actually kind of hated how much time Scott got to spend dancing with her at these things if only because Stiles rarely got a break where he could dance and not have to constantly make sure he wasn’t about to flatten someone’s toes.

(But they were promised to one another, declared by Scott one day when he was sixteen that he would take her hand when she came of age at twenty-one, so Stiles couldn’t complain as much as he would like. They were four years into their seemingly-never-ending honeymoon period, so they kind of deserved each other at this point.)

“After this song ends,” Allison whispered in his ear as they pulled close and turned, “head for the balconies. I’ll cover for you if anyone asks where you went.”

It took Stiles an embarrassingly long moment to understand that she was giving him an out to escape, at least for a little bit. He couldn’t get much of anywhere by going to the balconies, unless he wanted to climb onto the rooftops or get lost in the gardens before returning to the party again, but it was something.

“I could kiss you,” Stiles replied giddily. Allison flashed him a wide smile.

“I appreciate that you could and yet would never,” she responded sweetly, and Stiles couldn’t help but give a genuine laugh. Friends was all they’d ever be, and neither of them had ever cared to make their relationship anything more. Allison was a fantastic friend. Stiles was lucky to have her, and Scott was luckier still to be promised to her.

True to her word, Allison pulled them close for the closing bow as the orchestra played the last note of the dance, then twisted on her heel and pushed Stiles smoothly in the direction of the doors to the garden balconies in the back before he’d even thought to take the step himself. Stiles, far less graceful even than any singular part of Allison on its own, stumbled a bit as he was thrown into motion, but caught himself quickly and hurried his way over to the doors. He thought he heard his name being called faintly over the sound of the next series of dances starting up, but he ignored it and continued on, twisting around each group of attendees as he met them and hopefully not treading on too many dresses and exposed shoe points as he went.

His mask felt hot against his face, the painted leather slipping along his nose as the heat of the room started to feel unbearably stifling, and the second he broke over the threshold of the opened double doors his fingers were already up and pulling at the ribbons that held it in place. It slid down easily, and he tucked it neatly under his arm as he moved into the shadows of the romantically-lit area and found his way to his favorite foothold, hidden by a large ivy growth, that he’d gone to so many times before. The climb required no thinking on his part; he pulled himself up easily in practiced motions that would give his father a headache if he knew. The gardens below stretched beneath him until, finally, he’d found his favorite haunt.

The autumn air was cold on Stiles’ face when he twisted himself up and onto one of the balcony alcoves, and a fine layer of snow was starting to make its way down from the gloomy sky above. Once used for lookouts, archers, and other war-related things, the alcove Stiles had found his way to was connected to a heavily-locked and incredibly dusty war room that had not seen use in centuries, nevermind Stiles’ lifetime, and was now used solely for decoration. Stiles, personally, liked to use it to stare down at the town, as it overlooked the edge of the cliff face that the castle was built into. He never understood why his father didn’t just move the war room and let Stiles have it as his own, but he had a feeling it was precisely because of Stiles’ love for a balcony that he could easily fall to his death from that his father had said no enough times for Stiles, who rarely gave up on anything, to finally let it go. Yet another reason to never let his father know he often scaled his way along the other balconies from his room to get there in the first place.

As it was a balcony alcove to a room that was never used, there was only ever Stiles who occupied it. So, to say he was startled nearly out of his skin when another figure emerged from the shadows of the alcove’s corner would be to put it incredibly lightly.

In fact—Stiles had very nearly screamed. He definitely let out a very unmasculine noise, though he would never admit to the fact if questioned about it at a later point in time. Unfortunately for him, that would be the thing to alert the other figure to his presence in the first place. Which was a shame, he would later think when he ran this encounter through his head over and over again like the action could bring a kind clarity the memory of the event itself simply did not have, because, for the split seconds before Stiles had made his presence known, the man had looked perfect where he stood in the shadows, and Stiles had been immediately infatuated with the sight of him.

But, of course, Stiles could not have nice things, and it was usually because of his mouth. Now was not an exception to the matter.

Stiles let out his noise, and the man startled out of the shadows and into the moonlight like he was expecting a fight. Stiles, though trained to defend himself if need be, did nothing more than scramble back on shoes that slipped dangerously on the snow-slicked stone beneath their feet. The man stopped abruptly, his eyes darting from Stiles’ face, down to his clothing, and back up again. And then, all at once, he relaxed completely, looking strangely put out that it was clear Stiles was not here to fight him. With a sigh that sounded suspiciously disappointed, the man in question turned his face away briefly as if expecting someone else, and that was when Stiles got his first good look at his surprise guest.

He noticed the ear cuff first, flashing in the light of the moon. Made of some kind of golden metal, it sat on the whole curve of his outer ear, nearly obscuring the ear itself completely. It flashed again as the man turned his face back, his features pulled into a completely different expression than they had been in just before, and Stiles found himself staring directly into a pair of cloudy green eyes.

Stiles had no idea who this man was, but he found that he desperately wanted to know. It was like a tugging sensation from somewhere behind his heart.

Silence stretched between them as neither moved, marred only by the faint noises of the party down below, and then Stiles realized something.

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t dressed for the party. Except for the golden cuff he wore on his ear and the thin gold chain around his neck that disappeared into his shirt, he was free of flashy adornments and heavy finery usually worn to parties such as the one being held tonight. In fact, he seemed rather underdressed considering the weather, in nothing but dark pants, a shirt, and a deep red waistcoat hanging undone from his torso. His moonlight-washed hair was unstyled, hanging around his face in that way Stiles’ hair also did when he ran his fingers through it at the end of the night after he’d washed all the grease from it. The man had either attended the party and left immediately, or he hadn’t gone at all.

He seemed just as surprised to see Stiles on that balcony as Stiles was him, too, his eyes drifting slowly down to the mask Stiles held clutched in both hands and narrowing. It made Stiles want to hide the thing behind his back, like he’d just been caught doing something wrong.

“It was hot inside,” he explained quickly, then had to refrain from slapping his hand over his mouth for saying anything at all. He wasn’t sure where the knee-jerk reaction to explain himself had come from exactly, because this was _his_ homeland, and _he_ was the prince of it. Whoever this man was, he didn’t rank above Stiles on his own turf.

And yet, here he was, feeling an ever-increasing need to keep the strange man standing before him, completely underdressed for the snow that was falling around them, from thinking Stiles was weird for being on the roof when a party was happening elsewhere.

Unsure of his actions, Stiles looked away, directing his gaze over the curb of the stone railing. The town below lit up with lights strung from rooftops and streetlights, a sign of the upcoming festival to celebrate the arrival of harvest season, where there would be markets every night and dancing in the squares, with the largest celebration with a potluck at the very end. Scott always had the best birthday out of all of them, because it kicked off the season, taking place what was usually just a few days before the town celebrations started. He’d have a big party, and then he’d continue to celebrate with the townsfolk of both his land and Stiles’, as they were sisterlands and shared the same traditions. Stiles, having been born in the spring, didn’t get to have quite the same experience.

“Do they know you’re gone?” the man asked quietly, his voice nothing like Stiles was expecting from looks alone. Stiles turned his attention back embarrassingly fast all the same.

“Do they…?” he repeated in confusion before he realized what the man was talking about. “Oh! Oh, no. I mean, probably? Someone’s likely noticed. But I don’t think they’re paying attention to where I am, really. It’s not my birthday.”

_Shut up, Stiles,_ Stiles thought frantically. _Lord, please,_ shut up _._

The man’s brow furrowed. Stiles took the moment to admire his eyebrows, which were well-suited for his face. Stiles was pretty sure the man could hold conversations with them, if he tried. He could absolutely look menacing, with just the right expression. Stiles knew he could find himself easily terrified of this man. He just had that look about him.

And then, as Stiles was admiring, it occurred to him that he’d never seen this person before in his life, despite him standing right on the rooftop of where Stiles lived. Which, considering _who_ Stiles was, shouldn’t be possible.

How had he never met this person before? Did he climb onto the roof from below? How did he get past the guards?

“Why aren’t you at the party?” Stiles blurted out before he could stop himself, then winced. Strike two. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t had _that_ much to drink, had he?

The man eyed him warily, then seemed to come to some kind of a conclusion and sighed. “You have no idea who I am.”

Stiles frowned in turn. “Should I?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, the moonlight washing his features out until he looked nearly a ghost, those cloudy green eyes narrowed. “No,” he said finally. “I guess you shouldn’t.”

Stiles opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, then, miracle of all miracles, thought better of the action and shut it again. Surprise flashed in the man’s eyes, and Stiles could swear the corner of the man’s mouth quirked up, but he knew he had to have imagined it. Because the man’s mouth seemed permanently set in a frown. He hadn’t smiled once, and he had a very strong frown. The man turned his face away again, but Stiles couldn’t stop looking at him.

The moonlight caught off the ear cuff as he turned again, catching Stiles’ attention easily and giving him a better view of its overall shape. Covering the entire curve of his outer ear, the cuff the man wore was shaped like a curling line of crescents and circles in a pattern that tickled some vague part of the back of Stiles’ brain without any true recognition to show for the efforts. He’d seen the exact pattern before, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t place where or when, or what kind of meaning it could hold. It was a curious design, all the same, with smaller chains of gold hanging in loops from the bottom, some kind of bead or gemstone nestled in each center. The entire thing was also, Stiles noticed, studded with the same kind of gemstone that glinted with the light, though the strong tint of the oncoming full moon made everything seem too washed out to really tell any true color.

It was a strange thing to see, even on a night like this. Ear cuffs were found in other lands, but ear jewelry didn’t often extend beyond earrings in Stiles’ land. In fact, adornments in general usually came in the form of necklaces, rings, and makeup and rarely extended beyond that, and Stiles had never thought to question the reason why something so obviously stunning had never become popular in his, or Scott’s, realm. Even Allison’s kingdom, known famously for their silver jewelry and intricate designs, did not show any favor towards such specific things.

Until now, apparently, because Stiles couldn’t think of where else the man could have climbed up to the alcove from if not the party or the town. Though, if something like that was becoming popular, Stiles felt like he would have heard Lydia talking about it at some point. It was very possible she had and he’d simply not listened, however. Stiles’ attention was a fickle thing.

“Are you from town?” Stiles heard himself ask. He was starting to understand why his dad winced each time Stiles opened his mouth, because, right now, he’d soder the damn thing shut if he only had the chance. “Did you climb up here from the streets?”

A soft huffing sound met his unfortunate inquiry, and it took Stiles a moment to realize the man had just laughed.

“No,” he replied quietly, eyes still on the town in question. “I came from inside the castle.”

That stumped Stiles. So he … _had_ come from the party? How had he gotten himself in such disarray? Stiles might not have been paying the best attention to the comings and goings of the event, especially considering the size of the attendance, but he’s pretty sure he would have heard someone say something if someone had shown up in the state the man was in. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

Unless he’d gained his current state somewhere between the party and the balcony, which meant he must have done something relatively quick to become that way.

Stiles felt a heat crawl up his neck, swift and relentless, as an idea of what the man might have done occurred to him. The war room was empty and supposedly locked at all times because of its disuse, but Stiles had never actually bothered to check that. At least, not since he’d learned to climb to the balcony instead of going through the room itself, and that had been years ago.

Quickly, Stiles walked over to the large double doors that connected the balcony to the room and wrapped his hand around one of the huge handles. It barely budged an inch beneath the pressure he exerted on it, and even less when he tried with his weight added onto the attempt.

Locked. Absolutely, undeniably locked.

Stiles twisted back around. The man was watching him again, those eyebrows drawn together in bewilderment. He still stood at the railing, not having moved an inch except to face where Stiles now stood. Very rarely did Stiles feel any kind of embarrassment for his actions, but something about this man and his strangeness kept the embarrassment coming in waves. Stiles prayed his face, definitely red at this point due to the man’s reaction, couldn’t be seen too well in the dark of the small overhang of the doorway.

“How did you get up here?” Stiles demanded hotly. He thrust a finger at the door handles. “These are locked.”

And, to Stiles’ utter shock, the man actually smiled.

It was by no means sunny, and maybe not even a true smile, but his lips were undoubtedly pulled back from his teeth in at least a smirk. “As you suggested before,” he said simply. “I climbed.”

“From— _where_?” Stiles spluttered. “Who _are_ you?”

Instead of answering, the man merely tilted his head as if pondering Stiles’ question. He met Stiles’ eyes again, rendering Stiles slightly more dumb than usual with their strange color, and then, in one fluid motion, he bent at the waist in a bow.

“Thank you for your time, Your Royal Highness,” the man said, taking one last glance up from beneath his lashes to meet Stiles’ eyes.

And then he backed up, turned the same corner he’d emerged from, and was gone.

Stiles watched the empty air for a shocked heartbeat. One quickly became two, then three, and then he was tripping over himself as he launched at the space the man had left behind in a desperate scramble to catch up. Unfortunately, his shoes, more equipped for dancing than any other kind of foot movement, slipped on the slick stone floor and he went sprawling instead, knocking his chin hard enough to rattle his teeth and stun him momentarily. His mask went flying, smacking against the ground and skidding a few feet away.

Stiles groaned as he hauled himself up again, clawing his way to the side of the balcony railing where the man must have left, only to remember, with a shock, that this was the side that met the cliff face. There was no way down but a sheer drop to the rocks below.

A white noise started up between Stiles’ ears as he stared down the drop, the disappearance and the lack of a body below not adding up in his brain. A cold wind blew past briefly, rustling his stiff collar against his cheeks and bringing him back to himself enough for him to twist at the waist and look directly up. The action brought no more clarity than the previous one had, and the cold feeling of dread started up in the pit of Stiles’ stomach.

The man was gone. Completely, utterly gone.

But—how? _How_? If not up or down, where? Could he have moved fast enough for Stiles to miss him? Was he even real?

_No_ , Stiles thought immediately. No, of course he was real. He must have gone back. He tricked Stiles and had gone back. That was the only explanation, because nothing else made sense. People couldn’t move that fast, and Stiles, of all people, knew that.

Which meant Stiles needed to get back, too, if he hoped at all to know the man’s name before he was gone.

Twisting around, Stiles pushed himself away from the railing with only one goal in mind. He had to get back. He had to get back _now_.

Swinging himself over the bannister, Stiles grappled for the balustrade, hooked his fingers through the strong vines of ivy that coated it, and scrambled his way down, his stupid shoes slipping uselessly just when he didn’t want them to. He fell more than landed the last five feet, directly into one of the topiaries of the garden below the ballroom’s balconies, and tumbled from the greenery as quickly as he could. There was no shortage of stares as he raced up the steps and across the balcony back into the ballroom, but he spared the patrons little attention. If word got back to his father, he’d deal with that when it happened. Right now, all he cared about was finding that man.

Stiles pushed through the crowds, catching lace on his outstretched fingers, tripping over too-long trains, finding every face he met covered with a mask and utterly unrecognizable. How could he move so fast in such a crowd of people? And dressed how he was, was no one _stopping_ him? He didn’t have a mask—did he? Had he been holding one that whole time? Stiles could be obtuse to a fault at times, but he was pretty sure he was paying acute attention this time around, and there had been no mask in sight other than the one Stiles had been holding.

The colors and noises of the room swirled, meshing together, blending people and swarming through his senses. Stiles twisted around couples heading to the dance floor, stumbled past people as they shook glitter from their hair and downed glass after glass of the sparkling drinks, craned his neck this way and that in a increasingly-futile attempt to catch a single, maybe even final, glance of the mystery man that had so efficiently and completely disappeared that Stiles was almost started to question if he had seen the man at all—

And then he ran into Scott. _Straight_ into Scott, and hard enough that they both stumbled with the motion of their collision.

“Hey, Stiles!” his not-quite-step-brother-but-almost (if they would stop beating around the bush) laughed, catching Stiles around the waist and spinning him. He was wearing a wolf mask like anticipated, but in black and gold—something Stiles would never have guessed, since Scott loved the color red, and figured that was why he couldn’t seem to locate Scott at the start of it all.

Stiles tried to wiggle away, but Scott had always been the clingier than the two of them, and he’d had plenty of practice with not letting go. He sounded half-tipsy when he cheerily asked, each question half a laugh, “What are you doing? Where did your mask go? Why are you _wet_?” He paused suddenly, twinkling brown eyes narrowing through the slits in his wolf mask, and the next thing Stiles knew his chin was being pinched between Scott’s fingers and his head was being wrenched to face Scott again, who now looked distinctly unhappy at whatever it was he was seeing and completely sober. “What did you do to your chin? You’re bleeding!”

“Huh?” Stiles replied faintly, his hand rushing up to press against his chin. He thought the wetness had been snow, but from the way his fingers slid along his jaw when they met it, there was a lot more than just melted snowflakes happening there. “Aw, shit!” he exclaimed, trying yet again to pull away from Scott to no avail. “Lydia’s going to kill me if I get blood on this suit!”

“Too late for that, Stiles,” Lydia said darkly, appearing out of nowhere like she’d been there the entire time. In two swift movements, she dislodged Scott and took his place, Stiles’ chin angled as far from his clothes as it could be and smothered with a white handkerchief. “One night, Stiles!” she hissed, her quiet rage palpable even behind the butterfly mask she wore. “Just one night, I’d like you to keep your clothes in the same condition you were given them in.”

“It’s not my fault I’m accident-prone when wearing things I can’t even move properly in,” he grumbled back, but his words were heavily muffled by the handkerchief that had somehow crawled its way from his chin to also cover his mouth. He felt her small hand grabbing him firmly around the waist, followed quickly with two larger hands that Stiles knew immediately to be Scott’s, and then he was being led to one of the more shadowed corners of the ballroom and made to sit on one of the settees scattered around for guests to rest on.

“What did you even do?” Scott asked, plucking a leaf out of Stiles’ hair and inspecting it. “Get so drunk you fell off the balcony again?”

Stiles did his best to glower at him from behind the handkerchief. “That was _one time_! I’m not even drunk right now. Do I look drunk to you?”

Scott scrutinized him, fingers against his chin in mock thought. “Mask gone, chin bloodied, hair a mess, missing buttons.” Stiles looked down, dislodging Lydia’s hand, and, sure enough, he’d lost a button or two in his fall. Scott snapped his fingers definitively. “Yes. Positively drunk.”

“Traitor,” Stiles growled, then was smothered by Lydia’s handkerchief again.

“Stop talking, you’re making it worse,” Lydia barked.

“Where were you going in such a rush anyway?” Scott asked before Stiles could give Lydia a choice piece of his mind. Lydia shot him a glare for ignoring her and egging Stiles into talking more. He ignored that, too.

“Looking for someone,” Stiles said around the obstruction of Lydia. “Did you see anyone coming through without a mask? Possibly in complete disarray?”

“Only you,” Lydia answered. “Really, Stiles, it’s hardly been an hour.”

“Oh, come on!” he complained, throwing a hand up. “You’ve known me most of my life! You saw this coming. I’m the walking embodiment of trouble even when I’m not trying and you know it.”

Lydia made a noncommittal noise and pulled the bloodied handkerchief away, surveying his face again. “Looks like it’s just a particularly nasty scratch. You’ll have to put a poultice on it tonight before you go to sleep. His Majesty isn’t going to like this.”

“Story of my life,” Stiles muttered sourly, which wasn’t completely true. He stood up from the settee and immediately started looking around for the man again, despite knowing he’d almost certainly lost his chance. Lydia, busy stuffing the bloodied handkerchief into the sleeve of a passing waiter, hardly noticed him until he was already starting to move away.

“Where are you going?” Scott asked, stepping slightly in Stiles’ way. Not as a prevention so much as a way to remind Stiles that he was still there. Scott wasn’t fond of being forgotten, even when there was no possible way for him to be.

“I need to find that person,” Stiles half-muttered, eyes already rapidly scanning around as another song started up. He caught sight of Allison talking to his father, her brown curls bouncing with the motion of her laughter from where they sat piled on her head, and made a mental note to share his portion of the birthday leftovers the next morning at breakfast in return for her noble efforts. “I think they left the party, but they can’t have gotten too far.”

“We still have to dance,” Scott reminded him, and he looked so genuinely distraught when Stiles turned back to him that Stiles immediately snapped out of whatever kind of trance the man had put him under.

What the hell was he thinking, chasing down a stranger just to know his name? And on Scott’s birthday, of all days? Stiles knew better than that. He knew he had to cherish the ones he had, because they could be gone without warning. Strangers had no place in that, and Stiles was an asshole for almost allowing it.

So, Stiles took the man and his stupid face—and his stupid voice and his stupid eyes and his stupid glittering ear cuff—and shoved him into the dark recesses of his brain. And then he reached out and grappled Scott’s hand into his. Tradition was tradition, and Stiles loved Scott far too much to break one of their longest-standing ones.

“Your mask,” Scott said with a laugh as Stiles resolutely twisted himself out of Lydia’s returned attention and jumped into action with Scott’s hand firmly in his. Scott stumbled along behind him, his shoulder pressed into Stiles’ and his fingers weaving their way to the spaces in-between, and Stiles immediately felt better about everything the night had given him.

“Fuck the mask,” Stiles replied shortly. He pulled Scott up into the starting position, and everyone who knew the drill immediately gave them a wide berth. Stiles couldn’t help but grin in response. “Everyone knows who I am anyway.”

The music started, and off they went, dancing not one, not two, but four full dances without pause, much to everyone else’s general chagrin. Allison joined the third dance in, creating some strange kind of three-person dance when Stiles refused to let Scott go, followed almost immediately by Lydia and Jackson halfway through the song when it became clear there was no point in keeping up pretenses when Stiles and Scott were fully into their ritual and leaving no prisoners.

The night passed in a blur of laugher, pinched toes, and endless food as Stiles lost himself to the company of his closest friends. He didn’t see the strange man once even as the same hours he had wanted to spend alone in his rooms at the start of that night passed around him, time forgotten as Stiles allowed himself to have the kind of chaotic fun he’d tried so desperately to leave behind. Streamers were found and wrapped around everyone they could reach, Stiles’ dad being one unfortunate participant when he ventured too close to Stiles’ range, poppers were located and used to startle anyone who seemed a little too cozy in their supposedly-hidden nooks, and Stiles went to bed just as the sun was cresting over the horizon, aching with the feel of it all, covered in glitter and thanking whoever was listening that he hadn’t just given all of that away to find one person who probably didn’t even want to be found.

It didn’t matter that Stiles couldn’t quite keep him out of his mind even as the party carried on around him, because he had had better things to keep his focus on, and he knew he’d never see the man again.

Stiles went to bed that morning happy, satisfied, and resolutely ignoring the fact he desperately wanted to see that man again. 


End file.
